The Voice of Christmas Past
by Rinkinkirs
Summary: When he had asked Ginny to marry him, he never thought he would have an affair with a voice in his head. One-sided Harry/Snape, character death.


**Disclaimer:** I am a poor student.

* * *

He knew that he was gone. Gone, and forever, at that. But that didn't stop his conversations.

At some point, Severus (as the voice insisted he call him) had become a permanent fixture in his life, and even after he was gone, Harry couldn't bring himself to let go. He had never truly realised how important the man had become in his life, even to the point of obsession: he thought of him when he ate breakfast, he thought of him in bed with his wife, and he dreamt about him at night. Severus had never let him out of his clutches, even when he died.

And as he watched his children grow up, he told Severus of them. Of how Albus Severus, sorted into Slytherin like his namesake, had somehow turned out to like Scorpius Malfoy just as much as Scorpius liked him (and the voice laughed with him at that, not angry like his wife had been).

He told him of how he could never have sex without imagining Severus's face. How it made him ashamed of himself for not being strong enough to exist in the present, instead of in dreams.

How afraid he was to let go.

When he had asked Ginny to marry him, he never thought he would have an affair with a voice in his head. A ghost, so to speak. An illusion. He was tricking himself into loving a man who had once been the object of mutual hatred.

He was a fool, and knowing that only made it worse.

It was Lisa Turpin and her team of healers who diagnosed him, although he still didn't know how anyone could be diagnosed for denial. In some ways, it made sense, but he maintained that it did not in his case: he acknowledged Severus's death, but ignored it. If that made him insane, he would prefer to be.

He could see how Ginny lost sleep in her worry.

Yet, he kept talking to the dark, velvety voice, whispering when no one could hear.

*

Ginny's death hit him harder than he thought it would. In some ways, he was relieved, which only added to his guilt: he had always felt unable to give her everything she deserved.

He had truly loved her.

But he loved Severus's voice more.

He had never told Ginny that his mind-healing sessions made no difference. They had lived a happy life – she had, at least – and though not long by wizarding standards, he knew she had died with a smile on her face and hopes for their children on her lips.

*

The first thing he did when he entered the office – _his_ office, now – was to darken the portrait he himself made sure was created.

Below it, on the golden frame – Harry almost chuckled at the irony – a small plaque shone in the sun.

_Severus Snape  
Headmaster 1997 – 1998 (1960 – 1998)_

He ignored the reprimanding look of twinkling, blue eyes, absently noting that whoever had painted Dumbledore's portrait had managed to capture a remarkable range of details.

*

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Harry James Potter_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class; Member of the International Confederation of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Ackerley,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely_

_Hermione Granger-Weasley_

_Deputy Headmistress_

*

Years passed.

Dumbledore's portrait sent him yet another reprimanding look.

And still the black frame hung on the wall, staring at him.

In another place, obsidian eyes stared into an empty room.

*

"Hermione," he said, setting his tea cup on the saucer. "Will you have my portrait made?"

She looked into his eyes, sharp gaze seeming to find all his secrets – she had always been overly perceptive, he thought fondly – yet, she nodded.

"Thank you," he said.

At the finality in his words, she frowned – now she _knew_ something was wrong. Her stare pierced him, but he knew she would restrain the urge to use her ability as a Legilimens – Hermione had always heralded the rights of privacy, her friends' in particular.

"You're welcome," she said.

When the door shut behind her, he closed his eyes and smiled.

"For everything," he whispered.

"My boy," Dumbledore's voice called from the wall, and Harry looked up at his old Headmaster. "What are you planning, Harry?"

Strange, he pondered as he peered out from beneath his grey fringe, how age changed things – perception in particular.

"Nothing of importance," he replied. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must make sure the letters are sent."

"You know very well that is the Deputy Headmistress's duty," Dumbledore said. Harry smiled, causing a frown to spread across Dumbledore's painted face.

"Yes," Harry said, rising from his chair. "I am well aware."

He left a room of gossiping old portraits, their voices hissing like bees in the air.

*

It was a cold, abandoned room; too small for a classroom. The stone walls were bare, but for one: on the far wall was a single portrait, framed in silver.

Harry approached the portrait with apprehension, not able to hide the softening of his expression.

"Hello, Severus," he whispered. Snape glared at him, and Harry sighed, averting his eyes. "How is it that so many years after your death, you continue to ruin my life?"

"You can blame no one but yourself, Potter," Snape sneered, folding his arms tightly. "You should be used to leaving destruction in your wake. It is the way of your _kin_, after all."

Harry chuckled, resting a hand on the painted surface. Snape jerked back.

"How _dare_ you?!" he said, face turning white in fury. "Not enough that I was forced to sacrifice my life for you – am I to be haunted in death, as well?"

"I never forced you to do a thing, Professor," Harry said. He sighed as he retracted his arm, cradling his fingertips with the other, as if burned. "You did that on your own." A chuckle. "I'm afraid we're both fond of placing the blame on others."

Snape's breath made a hissing noise as he clenched his teeth. His hands were fisted, shaking in anger. Harry wondered why he restrained himself.

"I'll relent and say that I've ruined my life on my own, Professor," Harry said, looking away. He continued, voice turning softer. "Yet, it was all because of you."

Snape didn't answer.

"Goodbye, then," Harry said. He hesitated before he left, turning his head to gaze at his old Professor once more.

_Strange_, he thought, _how much younger he looks now_.

"I am certain Hermione will find the charm to unblock your other portrait," he said. "Send my greetings to Dumbledore, and tell him I will be joining you soon."

"Potter!"

The door clicked shut.

In the room, there was nothing but darkness once more.

"Stupid brat…"

*

As he climbed up the last steps of the Astronomy Tower, he looked out of the topmost window. The sun was just sinking out of sight, bathing the world in a golden light. He opened the door, stepping into a world that seemed more magical than magic itself. His last thought upon watching an owl fly towards the sky was –

_It is a good day to die_.

* * *

**Notes:** The title is heavily inspired by the Ghost of Christmas Past (from _A Christmas Carol_, by Charles Dickens). The first part of this was written in early June. At that time, I knew Harry would talk to the portrait, but not why. All of a sudden, a plot bunny attacked me, and the rest is history, quite literally. This was actually what spawned _Portrayal of Death_ (another of my stories involving a portrait), not the other way around.

I must admit I'm terribly uncertain about posting this, so any comments would be appreciated.


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